That Which Binds Us
by RavenTears
Summary: “You’re marked for life. That brand cannot be erased and neither can your blood. You can never be pure; never be normal; never escape your past. You’ll always be one of us. Till the day you die and God sends you to Hell with the rest of us.”
1. Rendezvous in the Desert

That Which Binds Us

Rendezvous in the Desert

The glow from the marred fifth moon illuminated everything in the room with a pale blue light which, when spilt through the warped glass of the window, made ordinary objects seem ethereal, while nondescript shadows embraced childhood imaginings and became demonic.

But Meryl Stryfe was not admiring this phantasmagoric scene before her – she was watching the ceiling, as she had a habit to do when she could not sleep. The clockworks of her mind were spinning incessantly while she pored over the nights events.

"Why is he here?" she whispered to herself. She folded her hands under her head and sighed. It had been an hour since she had aided a drunk and stumbling Milly into her bedclothes and under the covers to sleep off the liquor, and Meryl's body protested the late hour.

Meryl rolled onto her side restlessly. The bed creaked, but Meryl hardly noticed this as she stared intently at her mantle, draped over the back of the desk chair. She pushed herself into a sitting position, still staring at the guns she knew were there. He was coming, she knew, but would she bring her guns when she met him?

Would she need to?

Her legs dropped over the side of the bed, toes brushing against the cold wooden floor, and pushed the heavy blankets back. An anxious hand crept up under the hem of her nightshirt and settled on a spot just under her ribs to worry.

She sat there for a long while, thinking and rubbing the patch of skin to numbness in her anxiety. She jumped, startled by a faint scratching noise, and quickly scanned the room for its source. Meryl was tempted to brush it off as a rodent burrowing in the walls but, unfortunately, knew better.

In silence, she stood and tiptoed to her mantle, extracting a single derringer and continuing to the window. She pushed herself up against the wall beside the sill and peered out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person she knew was out there somewhere.

A few moments passed and the scratching stopped. Meryl held her breath and watched as a shrouded figure dashed quickly into and out of her line of sight.

She counted a full minute before abandoning her post at the window and scurrying quietly to the front door. This was what she had been waiting for – this was when her fears would either be realized or dispelled.

Upon opening the door, Meryl scanned over the walls of the house for a sign of the visitant. She found it, etched lightly into the doorframe.

She spun back into the house and went quickly and quietly to the bedroom, leaving the derringer she had been holding on top of the dresser and going immediately for the suitcase stowed under the bed. Dropping it unceremoniously on top of the bed, she began the hurried task of digging through the now mostly empty bag. In frustration, she upended the bag onto the blankets and began scanning the scattered items. She fished out a shirt, then pants, and a few other articles before expeditiously dressing.

It was the darkest hour of the night as Meryl walked out past the town and into the foreboding desert. The hard-packed dirt of the roadway faded and was swallowed by the desert which stretched out endlessly before her. The frigid desert air was still, bringing new meaning to the phrase "the dead of night," but Meryl was not by any means frightened by the nature of the desert that had always been her home. She was intimately familiar with the idiosyncracies of the desert at any given moment; she knew how to survive sandstorms and the typhoons that caused them, what animals in the desert were good to eat, which plants hoarded water best, where to look out for quicksand. She could recognize the tracks of sandworms and several other dangerous desert fauna, and how to protect herself from the freezing cold of the desert after nightfall.

All this knowledge failed to calm her nerves and settle her stomach however, as she was keenly aware of being watched. She didn't really know why, but for some reason she looked up across the desert to the distant promontory a half an ile away. Where the bedrock jutted up from the sand – and where she had once shared a few precious moments of emotional intimacy with the Humanoid Typhoon.

She thought she saw the outline of a shrouded figure standing up at the edge of that promontory, but it never moved and as she continued to stare at it in the nebulous darkness, the edges of the outline blurred until she could no longer discern the shape at all. If only it would move – redefine itself in her eyes – then she could either confirm or dismiss this gnawing anxiety that was eating at her as she trudged deeper into the desert.

"Mister Vash! Mister Vash!"

Milly Thompson pounded on the door and without waiting to see if he was getting up, barged into the darkened boudoir and happened upon the semi-awake form of Vash the (Former) Stampede.

"Mister Vash, please get up!" she mewled, standing over the prone figure of the deadly gunman in his bed and began shaking him by the shoulders violently. By this point, "Mister Vash" was of course very much awake and wondering why one of the insurance representatives that followed him around was in his room and mauling him – before the sun had risen, at least. His wakefulness did not seem to affect the blonde woman's actions, however. "Mister Vash!"

"What?!" Vash whined, his brain bouncing back and forth in his skull. Milly relinquished her grip on his shoulders, leaving him to flop back down on the mattress as she clasped her hands together in a groveling fashion.

"You've got to do something!" she pleaded with tearful, warbling eyes. Vash's head hurt and his mind was still clouded with sleep, but he knew something was wrong.

"What happened?" he asked, rubbing his forehead.

"Meryl's gone!"

"Hmm?" The last vestiges of his dreamscape melted away. "So?" he pouted, as was his nature, despite the strong possibility the tall insurance girl couldn't see the facial expression in the weak, predawn light. "She's a big girl – she can take care of herself." He hoped.

"Mister Vash, this is no time for you to be surly! You _know_ she wouldn't just leave in the middle of the night! It's not _like_ her!" Vash dropped his scowl, watching Milly's face in the greyish light.

"When did she leave?" Vash quickly rose from the bed and began scrounging on the floor and in the sheets for his clothes. He found his shirt under his pillow and jammed his arms into the sleeves. "Where did she go?"

"I – I don't know." With the way her pitch rose at the end, Milly seemed to have surprised herself with her own lack of information. Vash came up from under the bed with his jeans and cast her a questioning look. "I just woke up and found her gone. One of her guns was on top of the dresser and all her stuff was scattered on the bed."

"What?" Vash had been pulling his jeans up over his flannel sleeping pants, but now stopped in shock with the waistband just up to his hips. "Was it discharged? No," he continued, answering his own question, "she couldn't have let off a shot – I would have woken up. What about her other guns? Were any of them missing?"

"No, it was just the one. All the others were still in their holsters."

"So she's somewhere out in the desert in the wee hours of the morning, alone and unarmed?" He pulled his blue jeans the rest of the way up, buttoned them, and crossed the room to grab his gun and holster. When he turned back, Milly was still sitting on the edge of his bed wearing that pathetically worried look that made anyone want to stop whatever they were doing and comfort her. Vash was about to say something when her expression unexpectedly changed and she jumped up from the bed.

"And she's not wearing her uniform!"

"Huh?"

"She's got two sets of the same uniform, and they both were lying on the bed."

"So ... what? She's out there naked now, too?"

"Don't you see? What ever she's doing must have something to do with her personally – otherwise why not wear the uniform like she always does?" Vash's movements slowed and it was with hesitation that he fastened his gunbelt around his waist. The deceleration of his actions did not go unnoticed. "What is it? What are you thinking, Mister Vash?"

"It's just that ... this–" he fumbled for the right words, but found none. "Look, I don't want to go out there looking for a damsel in distress and end up interrupting some ... romantic interlude."

"Romantic ... interlude?"

"Well, doesn't it seem kinda like that might be it? I mean, she dresses up, sneaks out in the middle of the night, maybe contemplates bringing a gun for protection before realizing that there's no room to carry it in her skimpy, sexy outfit. . . ." Vash trailed off, obviously having convinced himself of this scenario already, and wholeheartedly imagining it play out with a catlike smirk.

"Mister Vash!" Milly seemed honestly outraged by his insinuation, and motivated to tell him so. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! After all this time you should know that Meryl–" the sentence hit a bump as Milly stopped herself, then continued again, "–would never _do_ something like that!"

"Something like what?"

"Like have a ... romantic interlude ... with someone she'd just _met!"_

"Well I don't know about _that_ ..." Vash offered, while taking up the professor-esque pose of holding his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "I've always maintained that somewhere within that catty exterior was a party girl raring to be set free."

"Mister Vash!" Milly was thoroughly annoyed with him now. She stomped over to him and glared at him, nearly nose to nose. "If you won't do something, I will!" She "hmphed" at him and stomped past him, out of his room.

Great, now Milly was mad at him. He followed her back to her room with a sigh and encountered the evidence of Meryl's disappearance firsthand. Vash found that despite his previous reasoning in his own room, now that he was faced with the uncharacteristic disarray of her articles on the bed, the seemingly forgotten pistol resting on top of the dresser, and the overall panicked feel of the room left in such a way, he understood Milly's urgency and staunch disbelief of his half-baked theories.

"Stay here, Insurance Girl," he said softly, causing Milly to halt her actions and turn to face him, an expression of mild surprise on her face. "I'll go out and look for her – you wait here in case she comes back." Milly nodded, dumbly at first, then her face simultaneously hardened and lit up as she crossed the room quickly and snatched him up in a hug.

"When you find her, give her that for me, ok?" she requested innocently as she started to pull away.

"I will."

"What are you doing here?" Meryl stared at the shrouded figure perched like a bird of prey at the edge of the promontory, trying to remain nonchalant and equanimous. Finally, the figure moved. He turned away from the spectacular view to confront her, but his face was still hidden behind the hood of his sand blanket. It didn't matter to Meryl. She knew every detail of his face without having to see it. She could even imagine his expression at that very moment.

"Looking for you," he replied succinctly, his voice harder than she had anticipated. He took a step toward her, then paused. "Aren't you afraid of me?"

"How could I ever be afraid of you?" she asked in honest disbelief. He took another step toward her, his booted feet barely whispering across the sand in a ghostlike manner. Meryl held her ground, unintimidated. He stopped a few paces from her and pushed back his hood.

"I'm not the same person you knew years ago." Meryl stared into his eyes, predawn light trying and failing to reach their dark depths. "I've done many things since then. Killed many people." He paused, then turned his head slightly away to stare at something down toward the town. "They all think I've gone crazy. I heard them talking once; they think it's because of you. Because you left."

"You're not crazy. You're just as cold and calculating as you ever were."

"You think you can predict me?" he asked whipping his head back to face her, incredulous. "Is that why you didn't bring any weapons? You don't believe I'm capable of hurting you?" In a heartbeat, his hand flew to his belt and he had a gun cocked and pointed at her.

"Why are you doing this? Why are you here?" she asked again, desperate for an answer. He stared at her blankly, then stepped back and raised the gun, pointing it at her head, point blank. He was totally unreadable to her, something she hadn't foreseen. Her gaze traced the scar that traversed his face, starting at the bridge of his nose and fading at the hollow of his cheek. She remembered how he had gotten that scar and wondered once again what he was plotting. His eyes were only mirrors to her, showing a false world without any true depth.

"Crazy men don't need reasons." At that moment, she knew he was going to shoot her. She dodged instinctively and managed to avoid the bullet meant for her head, but her ears rang from the noise, momentarily deafening her. The second bullet grazed her side and Meryl fell to the ground, muffling a cry of pain. She rolled onto her back in time to see him standing over her, gun once again pointed at her head. He cocked it slowly, giving her time to let the fear build, then aimed it squarely between her eyes.

Meryl could not believe what was happening. She didn't understand why he would try to kill her, and began to wonder if perhaps he _was _crazy. It went against everything she knew in her heart. Everything that had been ingrained in her since before her birth. She knew this man better than she knew herself; how could she not recognize insanity in one so close to her? But why else would he be here, about to put a bullet in her brain?

Her mind reeled in confusion and rejected what her eyes were seeing. This ... just wasn't possible. It couldn't be happening. This had to be some horrible nightmare. But the pain in her side assured it was no dream, and heavy reality seeped into her mind, fighting for recognition.

She felt the tears welling in her eyes, and closed them, determined not to let him see her weakness when she had been so sure of herself just a moment ago. She tried to breathe, but found it easier to just hold her breath and wait for him to fire.

"If you're going to kill me, do it now." When he hesitated, hope flickered to life in the back of her mind and she almost opened her eyes, but the frail creature was obliterated as the gun finally went off, exploding in her ears.


	2. Old Wounds

That Which Binds Us

Old Wounds

Vash had just began scouring the town when he heard the gunshot off in the distance. Immediately he knew where the gun had been fired and his eyes shot up and across the desert to the jutting bedrock just beyond the town's border. Even _his _eagle eyes could not define what was happening in the early morning light, but the knowledge that Meryl had not brought a firearm with her sent a shiver of panic across his skin.

As he took his first step in the promontory's direction, another shot sounded, echoing across the valley and through the town. He began to run, the silence that followed the second shot allowing his mind to whirl with possibilities. So many scenarios ran through his head, none of them ending happily.

As he ran, the last shot – the third shot – pierced his thoughts and left his mind blank, as though he himself had been struck by the bullet. But he didn't stop running. His legs carried him while his mind reeled, acting on instinct. Meryl was in danger and he had to help her.

As he ran, new, darker thoughts crept into his consciousness. The first two shots were rapidly fired – either defensive or aggressive; he couldn't be sure which – but the third shot. . . . That was a bullet designed to execute. There could be no other explanation.

Am I dead? she thought, as the sound of the gun firing echoed and faded. The pain in her side told her she was not, and she slowly opened her eyes, seeing the lightening sky still hanging above her as dawn broke across the desert. Painfully, she sat up.

He was gone. Disappeared into the endless desert from whence he had appeared so randomly. It occurred to Meryl that she couldn't hear in her right ear and she turned to look at the ground where she had lain. A dark circle of gunpowder residue covered the dirt and sand beside where her head had rested, punctuated by the crushed bullet imbedded in the center of the ring of blackened earth. For the first time, she noticed the bitter smell biting at her nostrils and rubbed her nose to keep from sneezing. When she pulled her hand away, she saw it was smudged with the dark residue. It reminded her how close to her he had fired, and hot tears began to leak from her eyes. She rubbed them away with her sleeve as they slipped down her cheeks, staining the white fabric with the residue as well. Crying in earnest now, she used the salty tears and her sleeve to try to clean her face of the gunpowder residue, not wanting to answer uncomfortable questions when she got back to the house she shared with Milly, Vash, and the gunman's catatonic brother.

When she finally had her crying under control, she pulled herself to her feet and kicked dirt and sand over the juxtaposed blood and gunpowder stains. She pressed her right hand under her vest and against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding as she made her way slowly down the hill and back to town.

The going was slow. Every time she breathed, her ribcage expanded slightly, tugging at the gash between her ribs, so to avoid that pain, she only took small, slow breaths. Breathing that way, however, meant she couldn't walk very fast.

Halfway down the hill, she saw Vash running toward her and steeled herself for his approach. She removed her hand from her wound and fisted it, trying to hide the blood that covered he palm. Meanwhile she held her vest over the injury with her left arm at her side. It was a feeble attempt to hide her wound, she knew, but she hoped at the very least he would pick up on the fact that she didn't want to talk about it.

He smelled her blood before he saw her walking toward him. When she finally did enter his field of vision, he sighed with his entire being, relieved beyond words to see her alive, let alone up and walking in his direction. He could hear his heart still beating wildly in his chest, but the adrenaline was already beginning to ebb and his limbs began to feel heavy.

As he drew closer, his attention centered on her clothing. Vash slowed his pace, coming to a stop a few yarz from her. He had never seen her in anything other than her white dress and blue tights, but now she stood before him in an outfit he hadn't known she owned. She wore leather pants; common among peripatetic herders and vagrants because of their imperviousness to sand, but strange and foreign-looking on Meryl's legs. Instead of her all-concealing mantle, her torso was simply garbed in a white long sleeved shirt and thin leather vest.

It wasn't just her clothing that was different, though. Her whole demeanor was abnormal to him – the way she carried herself had changed. She seemed broken somehow; somewhat less herself than she had been the previous day. Something happened up on that cliff. He didn't know what, but it had to have been big.

He could tell she was hiding her injury, trying to walk normally, and was clenching her jaw against the pain. His eyes drifted to her left side, lingering on the spot she shielded gently with her arm.

"What happened?" he asked her simply. She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes expressionless. Then, without explanation, she started walking again, trudging right past him. He turned and walked with her, refusing to let up. "Who were you fighting? _Why_ were you fighting?"

She just kept walking, apparently ignoring him and Vash followed reluctantly but silently.

Milly watched as the sun rose on the town and people around her began their morning rituals. She had dressed hurriedly that morning, only to end up waiting on the porch as the minutes crept by at a snail's pace. Vash had left looking for Meryl nearly an hour ago, and still there was no sign of either the infamous Humanoid Typhoon or Derringer Meryl. Anxiously, Milly shifted her position in the rocking chair, thinking that she couldn't wait much longer and resolving to head out and help search if they didn't return soon.

She didn't get the chance to follow through on her promise to herself though, as a few minutes later she saw the pair walking slowly down the street toward the house the three of them shared. Milly jumped up, ecstatic to see them both healthy, and ran down the street to meet them.

"Ma'am!" she shouted in greeting, slowing to a stop in front of Vash and Meryl. "Ma'am! Thank God you're OK! I was so worried about you! What are you wearing?"

"Milly!" Meryl forced herself to smile at her subordinate, struggling to maintain a facade of normality. "What are you doing here? Aren't you going to be late for work?"

"Ma'am?" Milly asked confusedly. "Are you alright? You left so early in the morning. And you didn't leave a note or anything. We were worried about you."

"Well as you can see, I'm fine." She carefully placed her hand on Milly's shoulder, trying to be reassuring. "You go ahead and go to work. I've got to get ready too, you know."

"R-right." Milly exchanged a hesitant glance with Vash, then – almost unwillingly – left the pair alone in the middle of the street to do as Meryl had instructed her.

Vash wanted to know what Meryl was hiding, but realized she would not respond to interrogation. Instead, he continued to walk beside her as she headed for the house, willing to wait for her to open up to him. He opened the door for her, and she walked into the house silently, but she couldn't hide her labored breathing from Vash's keen ears. His eyes followed her intently as she crossed the room, raising her right hand to the wall for support. She glowered at him over her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Her voice sounded aggravated, but Vash didn't take it personally, knowing that she was in pain.

"Waiting for you to let me help you," he answered simply. Meryl slowly closed her eyes and drew in a shaky breath.

With effort, she responded, "If you really want to help me, come here." He did as he was bade, immediately coming to her side, just in time to catch her as she fell forward, apparently unconscious. He easily scooped her small body into his arms and carried her to her room.

The smell of her blood was thick in his nostrils as he lay her on top of Milly's bed and pulled the leather vest away from her open wound. Her entire side was coated with thick, dark blood, which acted like glue and adhered her clothing to her skin. As Vash carefully pulled the shirt off of her body, he was glad she had fainted, or the pain would be excruciating from the fibers that had stuck in the wound.

The gash was deep, but had missed her rib. He left her momentarily to get bandages and antiseptic to clean the wound.

"You're a member of the Sirocco Brigands. You can't just _leave_." Meryl looked up from the knife she was sharpening and glared at the speaker.

"Just because nobody's tried doesn't mean it can't be done." She went back to the whet stone and continued her task just as she had done it a thousand times before.

"I'm _telling _you it can't be done," he sat down beside her, took her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his eyes. "You took an oath."

"I was a child," she rebutted, slapping his hand away.

"You're _still _a child."

"Then so are you!" she accused angrily. "How dare you tell me how to live my life!"

"How dare _you_ think you're better than the rest of us!" He stood and turned her back on her, about to stomp out of the room.

"I don't!" she shouted back, stopping him. "I just don't want to kill people for a living," she explained to his back. "Is that so unreasonable?"

"We don't kill intentionally," he responded without facing her. "You know that."

"We willfully risk other people's lives," she started, standing up, knife still in hand. "People have a right to defend themselves, but if they try it, they end up dead. I can't live with that anymore."

"You've never even killed anyone!" he shouted furiously, turning on her.

"Not yet I haven't. And I don't intend to,"she stated resolutely. "Not ever."

"You couldn't kill even if you had to," he hissed with a glare. "How many people have _I_ killed for _you_? To _protect _you? Every time I look in the mirror. . . ." He trailed off, still seething.

"Then come with me," she offered, reaching out to touch his arm.

"Don't be ridiculous." He shrugged her hand off. "This is the only thing I know. I can't just up and leave." He shook his head, glaring at the knife in her hand. "What do _you _plan to do? Sharpen knives for a living? Clean people's guns? That's the only thing people like us are good for out there."

"I'll find something. I have to."

"You run away and I'll never forgive you." Meryl could tell he meant it, and it hurt her deeply to face possibly losing him forever. Without warning, he grabbed her and pulled her shirt hem up, exposing her brand. He placed his rough hand over the tattoo and stared her down with his cold, grey eyes. "You're marked for life. That brand cannot be erased and neither can your blood. You're one of us. Even if you run away, you can't run from that.

"You can never be pure; never be normal; never escape your past. You'll _always_ be one of us. Till the day you die and God sends you to Hell with the rest of us."

"I love you Mel," she whispered, "but killing isn't right. There has to be another way."

"You're such a coward," he growled, releasing her roughly before stalking out of the room. Meryl let the knife fall to the floor with a clatter as a small piece of her heart broke. She buried her face in her hands and began to sob hot tears of shame and self-loathing.

Vash's fingers traced the lines of the familiar mark he'd found when he had cleaned the blood from Meryl's wound. The blue tattoo rested just beneath the bullet wound and had almost been removed by it. As the pad of his finger ran the length of the bold, roman letter S, memories nagged at him. His eyes followed the path of the viny curlicues and whorls of the knotwork that crisscrossed over, around, and behind the S without any visible beginning or ending. The ink had faded slightly, giving a clue to its age, but raising the question of Meryl's youth when she had it penned.

He ran his fingers lightly over the white bandages that now covered her wound and let his eyes wander up to her face. He was surprised to see tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and quickly removed his hand from her bandage. Her crying didn't stop though, and Vash imagined she must be dreaming.

He tenderly wiped the tears from her eyes and brushed her hair out of her face. With the blood finally cleaned up, a new smell wafted under his nose. The smell of gunpowder. He furrowed his brow, confused, then saw the streak of black residue on the right side of her face, hidden by her hairline. She must have tried to clean it off before she met up with him.

More disturbing was what the dark stain meant. Whoever she had been fighting had let off a shot right next to her head. He had been right when he heard the third shot and interpreted it as an execution shot. But how had she dodged? It must have been at point blank range, and she had already been wounded.

The mystery would have to wait, for at that moment someone noisily barged through the front door. Vash instinctively reached for the gun that no longer hung at his side, thinking at first it was Meryl's faceless opponent, come to finish what he or she had started.

"Meryl?!" Vash sighed at the familiar voice. It was only Milly. "Meryl, are you OK?!" Vash stood and walked into the main room, bumping into the distraught insurance girl. "Oh! Mr. Vash! Where's Meryl?! You didn't let her leave, did you?!"

"She couldn't have gone anywhere even if I had. She fainted right after you left for work."

"Oh it's worse than I thought! Oh Mister Vash, I was so worried!"

"How did you know she was injured?" Vash asked her, still trying to figure out what had prompted the tall insurance girl to come back for Meryl. Milly didn't hesitate to explain it to him.

She grabbed the fabric of her shirt at the shoulder and pulled it around, craning her neck to see herself what she was showing him. The shirt had faint bloodstains where Meryl had touched her earlier.

"When I got to work and someone pointed that out to me, I knew Meryl had to be hurt. How bad is it, Mr. Vash?"

"She was only grazed by the bullet. I cleaned her up and bandaged the wound. She's a tough girl. She'll be fine." At the back of his mind, he remembered that broken look on her face when he first got sight of her out in the desert and began to second guess his prognosis. Milly, however, took his words to heart and sighed deeply.

"But how did she get shot?"

"She wouldn't tell me."

"I suppose she'll tell us when she's ready," Milly said, looking past Vash and into the room behind him where she caught a glimpse of Meryl asleep on her bed. She then looked back at Vash, eyes bright with unshed tears. For the second time that morning, she caught the legendary gunslinger up in a bone-crushing hug. "You're a good man, Mister Vash. I wish the rest of the world could see that."

Abruptly, she pulled away and walked past him into the room she shared with Meryl. Apparently, she had no intention of returning to her part time job, choosing instead to remain with her unconscious friend as she convalesced.

Vash left Milly to her own devices, continuing down the hall to check on the other unconscious member of the household.

The wind whipped across the dunes, picking up sand as it went and pelting any misfortunate travelers not lucky enough to find shelter before the sandstorm struck. A lone figure enveloped in a sand blanket stood atop the cliff overlooking the small desert town, crouched over a bloodstain in the dirt the scouring wind had revealed. He dragged two fingers through the bloody sand and inspected the tinge on his skin.

"This wasn't spilled very long ago," he called out to his companions. "I give it a couple hours at the most."

Another figure approached the first, features also completely hidden by the sand blanket in which he had wrapped himself to defend against the sandstorm. He knelt down next to his comrade and inspected the stain himself, apparently coming to the same conclusion as he nodded his agreement to the first man.

"I've found something," a decidedly feminine voice announced. A third member walked up the hill and joined the other two before extending a hand from within the protective confines of her sand blanket. The other two stood and the first, apparently the leader, reached for what the woman held in her hand.

"He fired on her. These casings are from his pistol." After inspecting them, he rattled the shell casings in his hand like dice while he thought. "This blood _must _be hers."

"We can't say that for sure," the woman said, apparently in defense of the unnamed owner of the shell casings. "She might have brought her own weapon. That might be his blood."

"She would never spill his blood," the leader said definitively.

"I can't believe _he _would open fire on _her_," the second man announced incredulously. "I knew he had lost it, but _her?_ That's the last person I ever thought he would hurt."

"We can no longer predict his actions. He has to be reigned in before innocent people become involved," the leader declared. He pulled a letter from somewhere hidden within the sand blanket and scrutinized the writing on the battered envelope for what must have been the hundredth time. "I'll head into town. You two stay out of sight and set up camp. I'll return before dark."

The leader, tucking both the letter and the shell casings away somewhere hidden, made his way down the hill and toward the town in the shadow of the cliff.


End file.
